To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd He meant, he made us to behold and love Whom Nature's works can charm, with God himself ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS EARL OF HUNTINGDON. I. THE wise and great of every clime, To mortal sense impart : They best the soul with glory fire; They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire; And high o'er Fortune's rage enthrone the fixed heart. Nor less prevailing is their charm No, Hastings. Thou my words will own : Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known; Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name. The Muse's aweful art, And the blest function of the poet's tongue, From all that scorned Vice or slavish Fear hatlı sung. Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings Warbling at will in Pleasure's myrtle bower; Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kings By flattering minstrels paid in evil hour, Move thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign. A different strain, And other themes, From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams, (Thou well canst witness) meet the purged ear: Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear; To hear the sweet instructress tell (While men and heroes throng'd around) How life its noblest use may find, How well for freedom be resign'd; And how, by Glory, Virtue shall be crown'd. II. Such was the Chian father's strain With equal bounty to requite, He struck his magic strings; And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth, And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth, And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things. Now oft, where happy spirits dwell, Who first the race with freedom fir'd; came. O noblest, happiest age! When Aristides rul'd, and Cimon fought; When all the generous fruits of Homer's page Exulting Pindar saw to full perfection brought. O Pindar, oft shalt thou be hail'd of me: Not that Apollo fed thee from his shrine; Not that thy lips drank sweetness from the bee; Nor yet that, studious of thy notes divine, Pan danc'd their measure with the sylvan throng: But that thy song Was proud to unfold What thy base rulers trembled to behold; The Muse's law didst rightly know; And other minds to virtue raise, Must feel his own with all her spirit glow. III. Are there, approv'd of later times, Who saw majestic Rome betray'd, And lent the imperial ruffian aid? Alas! not one polluted bard, No, not the strains that Mincius heard, Or Tibur's hills reply'd, Dare to the Muse's ear aspire ; Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre, With Freedom's ancient notes their shameful task they hide. Octavianus Cæsar. Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands, Amid the toys of idle state, How simply, how severely great! Then turn, and, while each western clime So mark thou Milton's name; The spirit which inform'd thy aweful song, Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame." Yet hence barbaric Zeal His memory with unholy rage pursues; While from these arduous cares of public weal She bids each bard begone, and rest him with his Muse. O fool! to think the man, whose ample mind Unmov'd or cold! O fool! to deem That he, whose thought must visit every theme, Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand! |